


I am Diane's regrets.

by xSallyFace



Category: Sally Face (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Tragedy, Domestic Violence, Gay Sex, Heavy Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Inspired by Music, M/M, One Shot, Past Child Abuse, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Sex, Sad, Sad Ending, Short One Shot, Violence, Violent Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:49:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22132825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xSallyFace/pseuds/xSallyFace
Summary: Deals with Sal's abuse as a child. Learning how to love somebody isn't easy for him either. Henry and Diane can fuck off honestly I made them hella evil in this :/"Monster" by Meg and Dia inspired me to make this. The original rock song, not the trashy remix <:
Relationships: Sal Fisher/Larry Johnson
Comments: 1
Kudos: 39





	I am Diane's regrets.

The couch. Always behind the couch. Under the table. The closet under the stairs. Three places to run. Three places to hide. Every time their voices would rise I would run to the closest sanctuary and thank God I was small enough to fit. Those voices that ran across each corner of the room seemed to reverberate off my very skin. Dad. He told me to call him Henry. Never Dad. Mom. She told me to call her Diane. She was so pretty when she slept. She was so pretty when she was happy. Now, her body of twenty years was old. Tired from no sleep, breaking from fingertips pressed into her sides, and boiling with too hard of liquor for her fragile, porcelain outline. 

After every uproar, every tear by her, and every empty bottle by him they would come looking. Her, happy to see him turn his malice towards me. Him, happy to turn his malice away from himself. I was the six year old pathetic coward. 

Henry, I would say. 

My eyes would wander to Diane with frightened curiosity. 

What had I done? 

I called him Henry. I called her Diane. 

They called me Sally Face at school. 

They called me Sally Face at church. 

They called me "Diane's regret" at home. 

After black, they would confine me to my room. A tiny room with one window, where their words said minutes earlier would form long sentences and wrap around in a circle above my head like those music boxes loving mothers would clip to the sides of their infants cribs. I hated my room. I hated the dark. They knew it, too, and took pleasure in locking me in. Locking me in where they could get me. 

Dear Reader: Please note, if you ever were an four-five year old child, remember what it was like to lay in bed and imagine that loud heartbeat pulsing thick from underneath your mattress. Remember that hand that hovered over your face once you closed your eyes. Remember that loud breathing that resided around your open window. The creatures. That long-haired little boy that crawled towards you in the night, hair hanging around the neck, fingers outstretched. To a child it is horrid. To an adult, it is a memory that most barely ever remember. 

Twenty years later. 

I didn't understand love. I didn't understand human connection. I only understood the weather: constantly changing. I understood change. I didn't understand safety, or any emotion, be it love, or hate, that could be unconditional. 

I was at my second year of college. I joined late because of my father still keeping me locked up in my room. I was striving to be a psychologist. I didn't trust the crowds. I would go to my apartment, sit at my small desk I had gotten at a garage sale, and stay there for hours with my books, my papers, and a bottle of baileys. Then the day would end, and I'd get ready for the next. The prosthetic that shone around my face didn't help with how fucked up my life was either.

I slept with the lights on. 

Always. 

I didn't want many things, but every once in a while, I hate to admit, I would want to feel that popular emotion I had read about in so many books: love. I was scared to administer it myself. I was scared to feel for another person. 

So things happened. 

On the walk to my apartment I saw a boy. In a beige t-shirt, blue baggy jeans. A good 3 inches taller than me. I pardoned him and asked him if he knew where the street I was looking for was. He looked at me in a funny way, paused, and turned his back to me. My hands ran to his shoulders, my lips to his neck. Hard fingers, hard hands. His soft hair, thin ankles. We went to my apartment that night and we fucked. He was rough and gentle at the same time - I didn't know what to feel. I ended up leaving violet bruises on his arms, chests, thighs and basically his entire sculpture. It reminded me of my child self.

He gave me his phone number and we started calling each other. I was Sally Face, he was Larry Face. His name was actually Larry. I felt so bad about that night though. Feeling as if the bruises I had created on his masculine body would never fade away like the scars on my face from my father and mother. I felt fucking horrible, if I had to be honest. I saw him a few days later, but he didn't, since I had been quite far away, although I recognized Larry with his beautiful long brunette hair, his gorgeous gaze that only you could spot if you passed the darkness in his eyes, and fuck wasn't he was broken as I was.

I had been born of glass but now I only felt apathy. No regrets, but still, that hard human pain that is there when you know you have done a terrible trespass. 

I went back to my apartment. I turned all the lights on and opened the window. The night was calm and beautiful. The wind brought in glow flies by the dozen. They did not bother me like they did to most locals here. They brought light and company and I loved them with all my heart. I broke the lamps and poured the liquid into the bath tub. Small shards of porcelain glass managed to mix in with the water as well, that was now pouring from the faucet. I added the remaining kerosene I kept under my sink and by my desk which I had used as a denaturant for my alcohol. 

Maybe it would have the same effect on me.


End file.
